By The Light Of The Silvery Moon
by petrelli heiress
Summary: There's bad, like when you follow a girl down an alleyway and she ends up attacking you. And there's really bad, when you turn into what some constitute as a monster and bond with someone you really didn't like before. Peter/Sylar. Slash. Werewolf AU.


**By The Light Of The Silvery Moon**

**Characters/Pairings: Peter/Sylar, Angela, Hiro, Claire, implied Matt/Mohinder, OCs**

**Author's Note: I actually finished one of my ideas. Whoa. This was inspired by the first two Underworld films (I admit, they merely resurrected my love for werewolves), and the title I vaguely remember having something to do with a movie and a song (although neither have anything to do with this fic). **

**Warnings/Spoilers: slash, some spoilers for volume 3, although they don't really have much to do with this, length, sexual references (not as much as I might wish), low to medium level violence, slash (just in case you didn't get it the first time), length (I am not kidding, it's like 20.000 words). **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes or the characters therein. This was written for pleasure, not profit. **

* * *

"_I mean, it's not every day you find out you're a...werewolf. That's fairly freaksome," – _Seth Green, _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_

She walked slowly down the dark, almost deserted street. A man, hood pulled low, passed her and she wrapped her coat tighter around herself, shivering in the cool breeze which blew her blonde hair around her face. She felt someone – something – watching her and quickened her pace, not so much that she was running but enough that whoever might be following would have to speed up as well, thus revealing their presence. She had very good hearing after all.

She eventually heard the footsteps of the man following her, and had to wonder what type of man he was, to have such quiet ones, almost as silent as her own. At another time she would have been curious but then she spied the entrance to an alleyway and walked swiftly toward it, turning the corner into it and picking up her pace even more. She knelt behind the nearest dumpster and waited.

She peered around the corner just as the man appeared at the entrance. His pace had slowed and now he was taking his time entering the alleyway, seeing that it went nowhere. He was tall and dark and, as he stepped into the pool of light made by one of the few streetlights nearby, she saw he was also quite handsome, despite those unfortunate eyebrows. Her mother would be shocked at these thoughts – to think, her daughter being attracted to a potential rapist! The sheer horror would lead to a fainting spell, if her mother were prone to them, which she wasn't.

As she watched, he spun slowly around, raking every corner, surface and shadow with piercing dark eyes. She pulled her head back quickly as his gaze passed over her, her breathing quicker than normal. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, using some of the techniques her mother had taught her.

Her breathing was almost entirely gone when a hand grasped her arm and pulled out from behind the dumpster. The man pushed her up against the nearest available surface, which just happened to the very dumpster she had ducked behind. She could feel the edge of it digging into her back. She hissed and the man smiled at her. It wasn't a very nice smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding it in the least, "But you have something I want." He drew back the hand not grasping her arm and pointed his index finger at her forehead. She couldn't help but roll her eyes. Her mother would be so disappointed. But some things just couldn't be helped.

"Really?" she asked, her voice dripping with enough sarcasm that the man paused. She noticed – not that it was particularly hard – both of his eyebrows rise, possibly with surprise. His victims had probably never talked back, except to say "Please, don't" or, more likely, to scream. "Do you actually know what it is you want from me?"

She smiled at him and flexed her hands, feeling her claws slide out from underneath her fingernails. Soon her second set of teeth would appear and then her smile would definitely be something to see. "Because if you're talking about what I think you are, it's not really something you want," she continued. The man glanced down and saw the glint of her claws in the yellow light. He let go of her arm and stepped back, not in fear, but in surprise. "It's more of a curse."

Yellow light caught the sharp, white glint of teeth as she smiled, and then she threw back her head and a primal scream was torn from her throat. As the man watched, eyes opening even more widely, hair began to grow from every inch of skin he could see, and from some he couldn't as the tearing of clothing attested to. He could hear the sound of bones snapping, a sound he was unfortunately very familiar with, and then the girl was gone. Before him stood a beast of immense size, hair as blonde as the girl's had been. It grinned at him, the grin of a wolf, before it pounced.

It was in the air when he was finally able to spur himself into action. He began to run but the girl, the beast, it, she was too fast. Its claws tore through his shirt, and then he was flying down the alleyway, hitting the pavement with a sick crunch. He winced at the pain, straightening his arm from its unnatural position, and slowly rose to his feet. At least that was what he was trying to do before something the size and weight of a concrete block smacked him back onto the pavement.

His head hit the concrete with thud. He was probably going to get a concussion. Groaning, he glanced up and immediately went silent. The beast looked down at him, still grinning its wolf-like grin.

"Oh, you're no fun," it said with the girl's voice. "Come on, a big killer like you. You could totally overpower a weak little thing like me."

He spat in its face.

Its tongue lolled out and it began licking his spit up leisurely, as though it had all the time in the world, which, he realised, it probably did. "That was just uncalled for," it said, sounding sad.

He threw his hand out, one last desperate gesture, and, much to his surprise and delight, the beast went flying, right smack bang into a dumpster. He didn't waste time congratulating himself; instead he scrambled to his feet and took off in the direction of the city street.

Before he was even half way there, something sharp – like big needles – ripped through his side. He fell to the ground immediately, clutching his side. He could feel himself beginning to black out and panicked. Why wasn't he healing? He tried to get to his feet but slipped in what he realised was his own blood. He fell, this time with a whimper.

"Now you've really started to annoy me," the beast said, sounding bored. He tried to move, to see where it was, but stopped instantly when he almost blacked out again. He stayed still, and could feel the beast's eyes on him. He heard it sigh and felt the great gust of wind it caused, smelling like blood and dead meat. "Mother is going to be so displeased."

"Oh well," it finished and he felt what he now knew were the beast's teeth and claws rip into him. He screamed, once.

***

Peter closed the door with a sigh and dropped his keys on the kitchen bench. He looked back at the light switch and thought about going over there and switching it on. He was just deciding against that course of action when he heard a sound, like the swishing of material across another surface, like a wall. He froze, and then leapt for the switch, turning it on. As light immediately filled his apartment, Peter glanced toward the spot he had imagined the sound had come from.

With a sharp intake of breath, he took a few steps forward without thinking, and then paused. "Sylar?" he said, hesitantly because the man before him simply couldn't be the man he'd hated and feared for so many years. This man looked as though he'd been chewed on, thrown up and then taken a spin through a paper shredder. "Is that you?"

"Of course it's me, you _idiot_," Sylar said, and then he must have moved because he hissed, obviously in pain. Well, no wonder, really. His clothes were in shreds, and Peter could see the huge, gaping wounds from here. And, Peter's eyes widened, they weren't healing.

He immediately grabbed for the phone and his finger was poised over the nine when the phone itself was torn from his grasp and thrown across the room, where it smashed against the wall. He stared down at his empty hands for a moment, his eyes wide with shock, and then glanced back up at Sylar. "What was that for?" He started to reach for his cell phone, located in his back pocket.

Sylar merely shook his head and took a step toward him. His face twisted at the effort and he stopped. "Don't," he said. "Just don't."

Peter hesitated, and then slowly brought his hand back to his side. Sylar immediately relaxed, or that was what Peter thought he had done until he saw the flash of white as Sylar's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed on the floor in a pool of black material and blood.

Peter sighed and rubbed his forehead. Now what was he supposed to do? He gazed at the unconscious, wounded man before him and realised there was only one thing he _could _do.

He rolled up his sleeves and set to work.

***

It took an entire twenty four hours for Sylar's wounds to heal. Before that happened, however, he had a raging fever for eight of those hours, accompanied by uncontrollable shivering. Peter had never seen a fever that strong before and found himself worrying that Sylar would die before he was fully healed. He was determined though; despite this, when the fever finally abated, he knew he hadn't had much to do with its passing. It felt timed, almost to the minute eight hours of fever followed by what looked like a severe seizure, which lasted about four more hours.

There were times he thought about calling 911, and at one point he even took his cell phone out of his pocket and began to dial. The same thing stopped him every time. He hated to admit it, but it was the look in Sylar's eyes, the desperation, the fear. And anyway these wounds were not normal. They should have healed long ago – Claire's ability should have taken care of them as it always did. Instead it seemed to have no effect. That alone gave him pause for thought. What sort of thing could do this? An animal, maybe, because nothing human could make those sort of wounds. But how had Sylar come into contact with such a monster? Peter was afraid he'd have to wait until the man woke up. Even then he realised he might never know.

It was eight o'clock in the evening on the next day when Sylar opened his eyes. Peter could tell instantly that he wasn't really awake, that he was delirious. Possibly the fact that Sylar kept referring to him as Scooby Doo clued him into this; in any case, he had to pretend to be someone he wasn't, even hold the hand of a man he despised. It wasn't as hard as he would have imagined. Instead it kind of helped, seeing the man brought so low, battling something he couldn't control and, possibly, wouldn't defeat. In any case, he reminded himself, this would be a prime opportunity for future blackmail or trade. That thought didn't really make him feel any differently.

Three hours later Sylar had another fever, stronger and fiercer than the previous one. He mumbled under his breath and the telltale twitch of eyes under lids showed that he might possibly be dreaming. Whatever it was, it wasn't pleasant. He had never heard Sylar scream before, and he didn't want to ever again, the sound pained him as though he was the one experiencing everything.

It was exactly two a.m. when Sylar's eyes flew open and he stared directly at Peter. His arm came up, almost too fast to see but Peter managed to catch it before it connected, although he didn't really know how he had. A question better left for another day.

They stared at each other and Peter felt something pass between them, something primal and devastating in its intensity. He realised he was clutching Sylar's hand as though it was an extension of himself, and maybe it was because suddenly he couldn't tell where he ended and Sylar began. He could hear himself breathing, or was that Sylar? He could hear his heart beat, or was that Sylar's heart, pounding like a drum to a rhythm only it knew?

He almost had to force his eyes closed, and when he opened them Sylar was sleeping peacefully before him. He dropped the hand he had been clutching and stood up quickly.

In the bathroom, he gazed into the mirror. He looked tired, but that was to be expected – he had been up nearly twenty four hours straight. He splashed some water on his face and felt a tiny bit better. After a moment, in which he took a deep, steadying breath, he went back into the bedroom to check up on Sylar. Nothing had changed in the minutes he'd been in the bathroom, quietly freaking out.

He lay down on the sofa in the other room and was asleep in seconds.

***

When Sylar woke he felt unusually refreshed, as though he'd just had his best night's sleep in years. He glanced around the room, smiling placidly, and then realised he didn't have a clue as to where he was. He remembered being mauled by that girl beast thing but after that, nothing. Most unusual.

He sat up slowly, realising as he did that he was completely naked. He thought about it for a moment – after the initial surprise and rage – and it made a kind of sense. His clothes must have been shredded by that creature. Obviously they would have been next to useless in covering anything, let alone the important bits.

He stood up and wrapped the bed sheet around his waist. That would have to do for now. His stomach growled just then and suddenly he was starving. He was so hungry and he needed something, anything, to eat. Something delicious, delectable, fresh. He became aware of the fact that he was sniffing the air frantically and tried to get a hold of himself. Snap out of it, Sylar, you're acting like a complete lunatic. Not that that was entirely unusual, it was just slightly different this time.

He was half way to the kitchen when he caught sight of someone lying on the sofa, arm slung over the back. Ignoring his hunger for the moment – an incredibly difficult thing to do, believe you me – he went over to examine whoever it was. He'd know where he was, at the very least.

He bent over the sofa and everything came rushing back at the sight of none other than Peter Petrelli sleeping peacefully before him. The fevers, the delirium...He winced. Had he really called the other man Scooby Doo? What had that bitch done to him?

He shook his head and was about to move away when he became aware of something. It was somehow just out of the reach of his hearing, as though someone was following him and had been able to keep their footsteps in sync with his. Except...it wasn't footsteps this time. Instead it was...it was...it...His eyes widened and he took a step back. As he took a deep breath, Peter did the exact same thing.

He hesitated and then put his hand to his heart. He then reached down and placed his other hand over Peter's heart. His hand shook where it clutched his chest. Their hearts were beating together; each beat of Sylar's corresponding with one of Peter's. How was this even possible?

He pulled his hand away quickly, unthinkingly pushing a strand of Peter's hair out of his face. He turned his back on the sofa and faced the kitchen, his hunger returning with a vengeance. God, he was _so hungry_, it was like he'd been starving, as though he'd been weeks, months, years even, without food.

He tore Peter's kitchen apart looking for something edible and, after discarding a lot of sugar and orange juice, he finally found a few strips of bacon in the fridge. They didn't look particularly appetizing as they were so he rummaged through the cupboards and eventually found a frying pan. He set to work.

When they were done, he thought only of his hunger. He pushed the frying pan off the element and picked up one strip, devouring it with single-minded intensity. He ate the next one, and the next, and when they were all gone, he set about sucking all the juices off his fingers. It was so, _so _tasty...but he was still so hungry. He needed more. He needed more.

"I guess you were hungry."

He jumped, almost tipping the pan onto the floor. He caught it, so fast he never even saw his hand move. He blinked at the frying pan, now clutched in his hand, and then slowly turned around, frying pan brandished like a weapon, despite the fact that he didn't really need it.

He lowered it instantly at the sight of Peter leaning forward against the bench, one eyebrow raised, a corner of his mouth slightly upturned. He spied what remained of his makeshift breakfast on the pan and immediately set about getting every last trace of bacon juice, licking it off his fingers with the same single-minded intensity he'd eaten the bacon strips with.

"God, Peter, when was the last time you went grocery shopping?" he asked, dropping the pan rather forcefully onto the stove once he'd finished cleaning it. His stomach growled and he groaned. "I'm so hungry," he mumbled.

Peter frowned at him and reached for his cell phone. Sylar raised a hand, obviously meaning to throw it against the wall as he'd done with the apartment phone. Peter shook his head. "I was going to order takeout but if you don't want to..." He trailed off as Sylar shook his head. He sighed and was silent for a moment.

"Okay, I have a plan," he said eventually.

"Brilliant," Sylar said, deadpan. "What is it?"

"Well, you can't really go out dressed like that." He gestured at the bed sheet wrapped around his waist and Sylar had to admit he had a point. "Also, you're still covered in blood so you might as well have a shower. I'll see if I have any clothes your size." He added, before the other man could say another word, "And I'll try to remember what kind of fast food is around here. You want it now, right? So fast food is the way to go."

Sylar went over the plan in his head and concluded that it had merit. He immediately headed for the bathroom. He hadn't realised before, but he really was covered in a hell of a lot of blood. He shrugged. It really was far too common an occurrence in his life so it wasn't that surprising that he hadn't noticed. He spent a few minutes scrubbing the blood off and then examined himself, finding absolutely no sign of the wounds from last...He frowned.

How much time had passed since he'd arrived here? He'd assumed it had only been last night, but from what he could gather from the bits and pieces he remembered, it was a hell of a lot longer than a mere night. His frown deepened and he simply stood in the spray, thinking. His hand went absently to his heart and he could almost hear another heart, beating in time with his own.

The door opened and he heard Peter say something about clothes, then the door closed behind him. Sylar shook his head, slowly. It was no use standing here, thinking about it. He'd have to go find out, maybe even track down that girl beast thing. Besides, he was starving.

Peter took him to McDonalds. Sylar did not care, as long as he could get that food now. In mere minutes he had a burger in front of him – again, he did not care what it was – and he devoured it, even the suddenly not very appetizing lettuce and tomato. Even the bun somehow detracted from the overall deliciousness of the burger, but then he got to the meat and oh, how it was worth the wait. It was so...so _scrumptious_, but even then it was still not enough. He was still so hungry.

He told Peter exactly that – he would have yelled but they were in a public place, he didn't want to cause a scene, and anyway people were already looking at him because of the way he'd wolfed down his food. Peter went off to order him another burger, this time with more meat in it, and Sylar was left to ponder that one word which kept going around and around in his head.

_Wolf. _

He started to feel lightheaded and then...and then he smelt it. The most beautiful smell in the entire world, he thought, until he realised what it was. Blood, the blood pumping through every person in the room. The family in the booth behind him, the hooded man in the corner, the girl talking to Peter at the cash register, the man in front of him. He stared at the back of that man's neck and somehow heard the blood rushing through the man's veins, the way his pulse jumped in time with his heart beat. He had a sudden flash of leaping across the table and ripping the man's throat out, tearing through juicy flesh and feeling that precious blood flowing down his throat...

Peter sat down in front of him, burger in hand. He snapped out of the vision instantly, as though it had never been. He stared at Peter, who smiled at him, slightly confused. He frowned. He tried to remember the feeling from before, the smell of blood, the desire to rip the man's throat out, but it was gone, just gone.

He reached over and, instead of grabbing the burger off him as Peter expected, he pushed the burger aside and snatched Peter's hand up, placing it over his heart. Peter had to stand for this to be accomplished, an expression of total confusion on his face.

"Can't you hear it?" Sylar asked, desperately, not caring about all the stares they were getting. He placed his hand over Peter's heart and said, "Listen!"

Peter, still confused, did so and it was almost comical the way his eyes widened, the shock apparent in them. He snatched his hand back and Sylar did the same. "That's...that's impossible," Peter whispered, staring at his hand as though it were the cause of all this impossibility.

"Apparently not," Sylar said. He snatched the burger up and began devouring it. Disregarding his mother's advice that speaking while eating food was impolite, he said, "Look, I appreciate all you've done, I really do. Buying these for me, and the other stuff." He waved his hand around vaguely, to encompass all Peter had done to save him, which admittedly wasn't much but Sylar didn't need to know that. "But this is too creepy, even for me. I have to go find whoever did this to me and have a little talk with her."

Peter would wonder later why he didn't find Sylar's smile in the least bit scary but at the time he ignored it in favour of saying, "But I could help you with that." He pushed a hand across the table, possibly to take Sylar's hand, but the other man stood quickly. "Please, let me help you," Peter added lamely, knowing it was useless, unable to understand why he continued to press even though he'd always hated the man.

Sylar just turned and walked away. He didn't look back, although it did actually take an effort not to. He shrugged. Just another question to ask her when he found her. And he would.

***

It was easy, almost too easy. Sylar went to the alleyway he'd followed her down and picked up her scent immediately. He didn't find it unusual that he was able to control this sudden heightening of his senses so easily. He'd always been good at understanding how things worked. This was just one instance in a long line of them.

He crossed many streets, and even a body of water at one point, until he found himself in front of a rundown house, green paint peeling from the walls. A few of the roof tiles were missing. He glanced around, wondering where he was. He shrugged. It wasn't as though he was in any particular danger. In fact, anyone who dared attack him would probably find themselves dead in mere seconds.

He knocked on the blue door of the house and waited. The door opened almost immediately and there, standing in the doorway, clothed in a white dress, was the girl. Her blonde hair was pinned to the back of her head, long ringlets falling on each side of her face.

"Oh," she said. "It's you." She stepped back and ushered him in. "Welcome to my humble abode," she added as she closed the door behind him. "It's not much, and there's barely enough room for all of us, not to mention the rats and cockroaches, but it's home." She shrugged and walked off. After a moment's hesitation, he followed.

"So, I guess you have questions," she said, sitting down on one of battered armchairs and crossing one leg over the other. "Fire away."

He sat down on the armchair across from her, gingerly, in case it disintegrated beneath him. When it didn't, he relaxed, although not entirely. "What did you do to me?"

"A good question," she said, sounding surprised that he'd had enough brains to think of a simple question such as that. She leaned back in the chair and stared at him, her gaze cool and calculating. "I would have gone with 'Who are you?' but of course you don't really care, do you?"

She didn't wait for him to answer. "To answer your question, you've heard of werewolves, right? Well, that's kind of what you are now, except without the silver allergies because that's just stupid. I mean, why silver?" She shrugged. "Maybe people believed werewolves were too animalistic to appreciate something beautiful. I don't know. In any case, there's also this hunger, oh, and next full moon? You'll change. And you won't be able to stop. So, take precautions."

Sylar blinked. "What?"

She looked a bit disappointed. "You weren't even listening? I mean, I practise that speech for hours, and this is the thanks I get?" She shook her head. "Unbelievable."

"No," Sylar said. He grinned at her, to show that he understood she was joking. "I mean, you've got to be kidding. Werewolves don't exist, right?" The girl was silent and he added, with less confidence, "Right?"

The girl continued to remain silent, and Sylar's shoulders slumped. "This is not happening," he muttered under his breath, letting his head fall into his hands. "This is not happening."

"I know who you are, you know," the girl said. Sylar glanced up at her. "I cannot believe you find the idea of werewolves existing unbelievable and yet can believe evolution is the cause of your being able to throw things across the room without touching them, or how you know when someone is lying, or any number of things. It's like you purposely blind yourself to the truth!"

"Which is what, exactly?" Sylar asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's all magic? Because that I simply cannot believe."

"Look, if it was really evolution, an eclipse would have absolutely no effect," she replied.

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. "You have a point. I never understood that."

"Right, so we're over the disbelief," she said. "Next question."

"Who are you?" he asked.

She grinned. "You get no points for originality with that one, since I said it first. Anyway," she added and then cleared her throat. "I was kind of born this way. Both my parents were, you know, werewolves, and it passes through the blood, I guess. Like some sort of disease," she added, her bottom lip curling slightly with distaste.

"I'm guessing you don't like it that much," he said. "You did refer to it as a curse, after all."

She inclined her head. "A curse, huh? Yeah, I guess it is. It's hard, and it takes patience and years of experience to even get close enough to control half of it. Even now I still feel that hunger sometimes. Always so hungry," she added in a whisper, her hand going absently to her stomach.

Sylar had lived with a certain type of hunger for years. It had taken so long to achieve even a modicum of control, and even then he occasionally lost his tenuous grip on it, like the night he'd seen this very girl and known she possessed an ability. He knew what it was like. He frowned then. Come to think of it, his old hunger seemed to have disappeared. He'd spent enough time trying to control it that he'd know when there was nothing left to control. Although in other circumstances this would be considered good news, he didn't really see it as such right then.

"Any more question?" He glanced up at her, his train of thought interrupted by her words.

His mind went blank for a moment. He frowned and then remembered. "Uh, yes," he said and then paused. How to continue? "After you attacked me, I went to this...well, not a friend, but anyway, I went to his place and when I woke up this morning, our heartbeats..." He laid a hand over his heart. "It was like they were beating together, at the same time. And..."

"You were breathing at the same time, as well?" she finished, looking half way between excited and astonished. "That's...that's impossible!" she exclaimed, unwittingly repeating what Peter had said except that she sounded happy about it, not scared shitless. "You are so lucky," she gushed and then spent a few minutes staring dreamily at him.

"What?" he asked, unable to bare her gaze any longer.

She cleared her throat. "Uh, maybe I should get someone else to explain it to you. I'm not really qualified..." He was surprised to see her try and avoid his gaze.

"Just explain it," he said through gritted teeth, already expecting the worst.

"Okay, uh," she faltered. She leaned forward in her chair. "With werewolves, there's this thing, see? A bond between two people, binding them together forever. If one gets hurt, the other feels it, and you really don't want to know what happens when one of them dies, believe me. It's good though. I mean, the hunger's like almost non-existent or so Mother says, and apparently the full moon has a very odd effect if you're ever around your bondmate when you change. Anyway, it's kind of like soul mates, except...different," she said lamely before falling silent.

Sylar was quiet for a moment, taking in what she had said, before he shook his head. "No, I don't believe you. It's impossible," he said, his tone flat. "Peter cannot be my soul mate, that's just ridiculous. And anyway, I'm pretty sure I don't like guys."

"Only pretty sure?" she said, her mouth twitching slightly.

"In any case," he continued, ignoring her now very apparent smirk, "it's impossible. There's no way he's my soul mate. End of story."

"Then how do you explain the heartbeats and breathing in time thing?" she asked, one eyebrow rising.

"A side effect," he said, a bit too quickly. "Of the fever and delirium thing. Or maybe it's an aftershock."

"Really," she said. "That's all you can come up with. I'm disappointed." She shook her head. "Anyway, there's a way to prove it."

"You couldn't have said this before?"

She smiled at him. "No." She gestured for him to stand and he did. She stood up then and moved toward him. "If he really is your bond mate, and if you're really his, you'll both be able to sense what the other is doing, especially if – and I'm not able to stress this enough – what you're doing is sexual in nature." She shrugged at his astonishment. "We're very jealous creatures. And that jealousy would have been passed through your bond. He would feel it, despite the fact that he's not one of us."

"Are you suggesting we have sex?" Sylar didn't know whether to be disgusted or...no. He was definitely disgusted.

The girl wrinkled her nose, obviously as disgusted with that proposition as he was. "Ew, no, anyway I don't swing that way," she said. "Actually I was thinking more of something in the way of a kiss, just in case. Unless you're too scared?"

"Of course not," he said. Actually he found this all rather distasteful. And he realised, as she closed the gap between them, this would actually be his first kiss in years. Really, he had to get out more. On second thoughts, no. He liked his life the way it was.

Their lips touched, gentle at first, and then she deepened the kiss. He had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that she was pretty good at it. He was even starting to enjoy it when he felt it, the sound of his heart beginning to pound, louder and more violent by the second.

He closed his eyes and saw Peter's apartment, the kitchen tiles, to be specific. He was looking at the pieces of what had once been a dinner plate. There were still some soap suds on the edges where Peter had obviously not dried.

Sylar was just beginning to get used to this sight when everything blurred, not because his vision was wonky but, he realised, because Peter was running, running so fast it simply must be an ability. Even though he'd realised his old hunger was gone, there was still a jolt as he didn't salivate over getting something like super speed.

And then her lips were torn from his. He tore his eyes open and gazed, utterly gobsmacked, at Peter, standing in front of him, his back to him, hand outstretched. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. Sylar realised he was too. He glanced toward where Peter was pointing and saw the girl lying by the wall, obviously having been thrown there.

She attempted to get to her feet and eventually succeeded. Sylar was shocked to hear Peter growl at her. She smiled at him and swept her hair out of her face, seemingly unfazed. She shot Sylar a look of immense satisfaction. "See, I told you so," it said with a smirk.

"Peter, what the hell are you doing here?" Sylar asked, furious and unwilling to admit he knew the reason why.

Peter blinked and then turned slowly around to face Sylar, his arm resuming its place at his side. There was an expression of total confusion on his face. "What?" He blinked again. "I...don't know. I just..." His vision sharpened and he spun around to look at the girl. He pointed at her. "She kissed you!" he said, his voice shrill and completely unlike it usually was.

"So?" Sylar had the urge to go up to him and tell him that yes, she'd kissed him but he hadn't enjoyed it at all, and squashed it.

His brow furrowing in confusion, Peter turned back to him. "I don't know, I..." He paused and his eyes widened. His hands went to his throat as though he could somehow throttle the words he'd already said. "Did I just...oh god, this is not happening."

"Unfortunately, it is." Sylar pointed at the girl. "She says we're soul mates."

"Excuse me?" This time Peter turned slowly around to look at her, avoiding the dizziness that might very well ensue if he spun around again. "I'll have you know, I happen to hate this man."

"Really?" Sylar cursed himself for sounding so hurt. "You do?"

Peter looked a bit guilty. "Well...maybe hate is a strong word..." He stopped himself before he said anything more damning. "The point is, we can't be soul mates. It's just not possible."

"I'm afraid, boys," said a voice from the doorway, "that my daughter is telling the truth. It _is _possible and this _is _happening so you'll have to get used to it." They turned toward the sound of the voice and saw a tall, chubby woman with greying blonde hair. In her fingers she held a thin cigarette, obviously one she'd rolled herself. She took a drag on it as they watched her. Sylar had the urge to get to his knees and bare his throat for her, and wondered why he wasn't doing exactly that.

She smiled. "In case my daughter has been lax, which I totally expect she has been, my name is Isla and this blonde nincompoop here is Amy."

"Hey," Amy said, waving at them. They did not wave back.

"Now that we've managed to dispel some of your disbelief," the woman named Isla said, "you may leave. My daughter was not supposed to change you, and I'm sorry for you that she did. In any case, you must now fend for yourself. You certainly have more than most of us do at the beginning," she added, giving Peter the eyeball.

"But I don't know anything about being a werewolf!" he said, knowing he sounded childish and not caring. They had brought him into this mess, made him whatever he was – they owed him their help, at the very least.

Isla sighed and produced a small, white business card. On it there was only what looked like a phone number. "Take it," she said, giving it to him. "Her cell phone number is on the back," she said, inclining her head toward her daughter. "I'd prefer if you called her first, if you have any questions, that is."

She left the room and he heard her climb what must be stairs. "You see what I have to put up with?" Amy said. When he turned around, he saw that she had resumed her seat in the armchair. "You should leave anyway. Father will be home soon."

Sylar hesitated and then glanced at Peter.

They left immediately, passing a hooded man on their way down the street.

***

"Look, we just have to take this one step at a time," Peter said once Sylar hadn't spoken for fifteen minutes. They were back at his apartment, and Peter was silently freaking out again. He didn't really know what was going on, except that apparently Sylar was his soul mate (he still didn't believe this) and a werewolf to boot (he could believe this since it was definitely more possible than the former). He needed to make a plan, even if it was to go to the bathroom and quietly freak out there.

"You're a werewolf, right?" he continued as Sylar glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "That means you're affected by the full moon. I mean, you'll change then. So all we have to do is find out when the next full moon is, and take the necessary precautions."

"Which are?" Sylar was giving him an odd look, one that Peter couldn't decipher. Not that that was unusual.

"We have to find a way to contain you, to make sure you don't get out and start eating people or whatever it is that werewolves like to do," he replied. He went over to the calendar, pinned to the wall behind Sylar, and examined it because calendars are gold mines for information like when it's good to go fishing or when the next full moon would be, for example. He tapped his finger on the date, two weeks from that very day.

"We have two weeks," Peter said. He turned around and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "And if I remember my Buffy correctly, you'll not only change the night _of _the full moon but the night before and the night after. Even if that isn't true, it's better to be safe than sorry."

Sylar smiled with absolutely no warmth and turned around on the stool to face him. "Tell me, genius, how exactly are we going to contain me, as you so delicately put it?" He spread his arms wide. "A cage? Where are we going to get one, and how exactly are we going to get it in here?"

Peter waved a hand, dismissing the questions. "You let me figure that out," he said. "Just...go have a shower. You stink. What did you do, walk through a swamp?"

In one swift motion, Sylar was standing. He stared at Peter for a long moment, and then breathed out slowly. Peter did the same and then glared at the other man when he realised what he'd done. Instead of smirking, as Peter expected him to, Sylar didn't do anything except walk off in the direction of the bathroom, leaving Peter almost as confused as he'd been once he'd realised he had just thrown a strange blonde girl clear across the room.

Peter stood leaning against the wall for a few minutes more, deep in thought, and then went to his bedroom where he took the clothes he'd set aside for just such an occasion (over the years he'd learned to be prepared) and put them in front of the bathroom door. Sylar would realise where they were eventually.

Back in the living room, he gazed at his bookcase, at one book in particular. _Memoirs of a Former Bug Man_, by Dr. Mohinder Suresh. He only had one copy, even though the man had written a dozen books, both autobiographies like this one and other more scientific texts. He had seen the collection at Matt's apartment, shelf upon shelf of them. If he'd attempted to purchase all of them, his money would have disappeared very quickly. Maybe he should call Mohinder – he might have a few pointers for Sylar, about how to survive as a half man, half something else.

He hesitated and then decided against it. He'd ask Sylar what he thought later. Instead he took out his cell phone and dialled a different number.

"Hello?" she said.

"Mom," he began only to be interrupted as Angela recognised his voice.

"Peter, why haven't you called sooner?" she demanded. She sounded truly worried so Peter had no trouble forgiving her for the interruption. "Your brother and I have been worried sick."

"I'm sure you have," he replied, but again she interrupted him.

"Is Claire with you?"

"What?" He frowned. "No, of course she isn't. Why? Is she okay? What's happened?"

"Nothing," his mother replied, even though it so obviously wasn't nothing. "Everything's fine. Just remember to call more often."

"I will," Peter promised and, even though he really wanted to know where Claire was, he decided to drop it for the moment. He had bigger problems. "Look, I called for a reason. It might sound very strange...actually it _will _sound very strange, but I want you to listen to me, okay?"

"What is it, Peter?"

Peter took a deep breath. "I need a cage."

She was silent, and then said, "A cage? What for exactly? Wait." When she next spoke, the suspicion was very apparent in her tone. "This is not that S&M thing, is it? Because I've had enough of that from Nathan, and I really don't need it from you."

"What? No!" Peter was vehement in his denial, while also wondering what exactly his brother had been up to. "There is a very good reason, okay? I can't tell you about it, so you're just going to have to trust me." He waited, with bated breath.

Eventually she said, "If I was able to get you a cage, and I'm not saying anything either way, but supposing I could, how do you propose we get it to your apartment, which I'm assuming is the place you want it?"

"It is, and I don't know." He paused. "Maybe Hiro could teleport it? I know he's busy with an assignment right now but if he has a moment free, I would really appreciate it. I won't need it for at least a week," he added as his mother remained silent. "So...you don't have to decide just yet."

"In that case," Angela said, "I will get back to you." She paused and he almost thought she had hung up the phone until she added, quietly, "Take care, Peter." With that she did hang up, leaving Peter listening to the dial tone and wondering exactly what had happened to Claire and why everyone was looking for her.

The reason he couldn't take time out to ring around and find out walked out of the bedroom at that moment, dressed in some of Peter's old clothes. The jeans were too tight, and the shirt's sleeves were a little too short, but it was better than nothing. Sylar raised an eyebrow as Peter quickly put his cell phone away, slipping it back into his pocket.

"Have you managed to wrangle us up a cage?" Sylar asked as Peter continued to stare.

"Uh, yeah," Peter said, adding as both of Sylar's eyebrows rose higher, "Well, hopefully. They're going to get back to me."

Sylar nodded, pulling absently at a shirt sleeve. He hesitated and then said, "Do you have anything to eat? I'm so hungry, you have no idea."

"Yes, actually." Peter moved to the refrigerator and opened it. "I went grocery shopping while you were gone." He glanced over his shoulder at Sylar, who was now standing beside the kitchen bench. "Would steak be alright?"

Sylar nodded. He pulled on the shirt sleeve again and then sat down on one of the kitchen stools.

"Okay, I can thaw it out and then you can eat it," Peter said, having next to no idea how to go about this. How do you go about feeding a werewolf anyway? He'd have to Google it later. "Or I can cook it." He looked over at Sylar and smiled.

"I just..." Sylar shook his head as if it clear it. "I'm so hungry." The way he looked, so pale and wan as though he hadn't eaten in days, Peter knew he wasn't lying.

"Thawing it is." He took the steak out of the package, put it on a plate and placed it in the microwave.

He waited, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the kitchen bench. He avoided looking at Sylar, instead gazing at the vase of flowers on the bench behind him. They were starting to wilt; he'd have to water them at some point.

He froze then, as he felt invisible fingers brush through his hair and the press of lips against his cheek, as he heard a voice he recognised instantly whisper, "Thanks," in his ear. He shivered, his gaze turning toward Sylar, who, if it were possible, looked even more pale and wan than he had before. In fact...

He rushed forward, catching the other man before he fell off the stool. He righted him, keeping a steady grip on him. And it was good Peter had done so because Sylar would have fallen again, if Peter hadn't been there to steady him.

"So hungry," Sylar mumbled. He gripped Peter's arm, his fingernails digging in until the other man winced at the pressure. "So...hungry..."

"It's okay," Peter said quietly. "It'll all be okay, I promise." Sylar gave him a look of such disbelief it shook him right to the core. "I promise," he added, his tone strong and sure and steady.

The microwave dinged behind them. Peter turned, after making sure Sylar was okay enough to sit on the stool without falling off it again, and took the steak out. He leaned back against the kitchen wall and watched Sylar devour it.

There would be two very long weeks ahead of them. Peter shivered. He had never seen Sylar so weak. At any other time, it would have been reassuring, a way to finally defeat him, but now it just scared the shit out of him. Peter had felt that other hunger before, but it must be nothing compared to this one, an all-consuming hunger that seemingly drained the strength out of Sylar. He just hoped the hunger wouldn't be as strong after the change.

***

A week passed and Angela didn't contact them. Sylar continued to get weaker by the day, his hunger so powerful Peter began to worry that he wouldn't survive until the full moon, and even if he did, he wouldn't have enough strength to complete the change. He thought about calling Amy but when he finally got around to it, all he got was her voicemail. He tried to contact Isla but the man who finally picked up sounded so bored and angry at the same time, as though Peter had interrupted him while he'd been doing something extra important, that Peter just mumbled, "Sorry, wrong number," and hung up.

He didn't really like leaving Sylar alone, partly because Angela might ring and he didn't want her to know Sylar was there (she would definitely make connections he did not want her to), but mostly because he was worried Sylar would die without him there. He insisted to himself it wasn't that whole ridiculous soul mate thing, but sometimes when the other man looked at him, he kind of imagined he saw something in Sylar's eyes, something like trust. Anyway, he'd always been a sucker for lost causes, and if this wasn't one, he didn't know what was.

He had to leave him alone though, especially when Sylar had managed to eat everything he'd bought only a week ago. When he returned from the grocery store, thankfully only a block away, he was weighed down by plastic bags which he dumped on the kitchen bench. He put a piece of steak in the microwave and then went looking for Sylar, finding him in the bathroom. He stood beneath the shower spray, still fully clothed. His head was turned toward the shower nozzle and his eyes were closed.

"Sylar," Peter whispered, his eyes wide. Sylar glanced over at him and then reached out a hand.

"Peter," he whispered back as Peter grasped his hand and pulled him out of the shower, leaning past him to turn it off.

"I have food," Peter said, trying to remember why exactly this was important.

Sylar smiled at him, soaked to the bone and dripping on him. "How nice for you," he drawled. "Mind sharing some of that precious food with me?"

Peter returned the smile. "It's like you're reading my mind," he said, turning to leave. The instant Peter tried to pull his hand free, Sylar grasped it tight and pulled him in, until they were so close Peter could feel his clothes dampening, could hear Sylar's heart pounding, mimicking the sound of his own heart.

"I'm so hungry, Peter," Sylar murmured, his hand coming up to cup the other man's cheek. Peter realised Sylar was shivering and wondered exactly how long he'd been in the shower.

Instead of saying something about getting him into something warm, Peter said, "I'm working on that," meaning that the piece of steak in the microwave would soon be ready. Sylar gazed at him, and Peter saw his pupils were dilated. He was just beginning to get the first inkling of a bad feeling when Sylar kissed him.

Peter froze. Whoa, this was so not happening. In fact, he was probably dreaming, although why he'd be dreaming about kissing Sylar was a mystery in itself. In any case, so not happening.

Sylar brought up his other hand, using it to cup Peter's other cheek and keep him still. He deepened the kiss and Peter's last thought before he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Sylar's waist was that actually, this wasn't so bad. In fact, it was kinda nice. Amazing, really...

In the distance, he heard the microwave ding but it wasn't a particularly important noise. So he ignored it, and Sylar's half-hearted attempts at extricating himself from Peter, pulling him back into a kiss that was all sorts of fantastic.

The sound of something crashing down in what was probably the living room, followed by high-pitched Japanese, broke the kiss and they both turned toward it, almost identical frowns on their faces. Peter told Sylar to stay in the bathroom and went to investigate.

It turned out to be Hiro, who had somehow managed to teleport an enormous cage right into the middle of Peter's living room. He wasn't there for long. Peter expected him to ask just what the cage was for, but all he wanted to know was whether he had happened to see Ando, who had disappeared a month ago and was in fact the reason Hiro was always so busy.

"Kimiko and I are starting to get really worried," Hiro said, a frown that seemed permanent furrowing his brow. Peter tried not to notice the frog perched on the Japanese man's shoulder, in case he was going crazy. "He's never been gone this long before."

"Well, I'll keep a look out, I promise," Peter said, and with that Hiro was gone, that frown still fixed on his face. Peter sighed and leaned against the wall. He crossed his arms and gazed unseeingly at the cage, which looked formidable and all kinds of crazy. It also looked as though it could hold a werewolf. Well, they'd just have to wait and see. In the meantime...

He took the steak out of the microwave and gave it to Sylar, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze with the almost exact same intensity with which he devoured the steak. It was going to be a long week.

***

It turned out to be a short week, and a frustrating one at that. Time seemed to pass at a snail's pace but whenever he looked at the clock hours had passed since he'd looked seemingly a few minutes ago. Sylar stopped avoiding his gaze and instead began to avoid him entirely, although how this was possible when Peter's apartment was small, and became smaller with the addition of the huge cage now taking up half of the living room, was unclear. Despite this, he managed it.

Peter became increasingly frustrated with Sylar's behaviour, particularly because he could not stop thinking of that kiss, how it had actually been pretty good, and how he wouldn't mind repeating it sometime. In order to cease thinking these ridiculous thoughts, Peter went out more, going for long walks to clear his head. He returned every time with a head no clearer than it had been and a peculiar longing to see someone he really shouldn't be thinking about at all, let alone longing for.

So he'd try and strike up a conversation but Sylar would only glower at him (seriously, he glowered; Peter had never seen anyone glower before, except Claire and that was only when he was sure she was PMSing) and then walk into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. And the cycle would continue.

By the middle of the week, Sylar's hunger began to fluctuate; one minute he didn't feel like eating at all, sometimes even looked positively ill at the sight of food, the next he'd be starving, enough so that he even started giving the furniture odd, hungry looks. Peter didn't know what to do about that – he didn't really know what to do about anything. Sometimes he thought about throwing Sylar out (most of this kind of thinking was done at the very beginning of his long walks) but this would usually end with thinking about that kiss, and how it had actually been amazing. Even though he wasn't technically gay, for a kiss like that he'd do practically anything.

It was the morning of the day of the night before the full moon (a mouthful if ever there was one) when Peter began to feel strange. He and Sylar had eventually decided to share the bed because the cage completely blocked the sofa and Sylar would under no circumstances sleep on the floor (neither would Peter, for that matter). So they'd come to an agreement: they'd keep to their sides of the bed, and keep a wall of pillows and sofa cushions between them just in case.

Peter woke up with his face smooshed into part of the pillow wall. This was how he usually woke up so it was nothing new (he had the bad feeling that if the pillow wall had not been there he would have snuggled, and that was definitely a terrifying thought). Since his waking up involved nothing particularly unusual (for him anyway) Peter thought the day wouldn't be too unusual either.

Boy, was he wrong.

He was cooking breakfast when he first caught the scent. At first he thought it was merely the bacon, or the eggs, but after a thorough examination, it turned out to be neither. The smell, well, it was like...everything he'd ever loved rolled into one delicious, mouth-watering, fucking _irresistible _scent. It smelt as though it had been specifically made for him. Peter didn't actually find this unusual since he was too busy burning breakfast, so caught up in smelling that peculiar scent was he.

"Peter, would you pay attention?" Sylar said from behind him, sounding as annoyed and pretentious as he always seemed to. "You're burning the bacon. I can smell it."

Peter rolled his eyes and mumbled something incredibly insulting under his breath but tried to pay attention to breakfast anyway. It wouldn't do to start a fight with Sylar right then because then they'd yell at each other, Sylar would storm off and Peter would have to take another of his long walks because staying in the same apartment as a pissed off and frustrated Sylar was a very dangerous thing indeed.

In any case, he wanted to stay around so he could find the source of that gorgeous scent.

He was dishing the bacon and eggs out when he realised where it was coming from. _Sylar_. And it couldn't be some new body wash because Sylar wasn't like that, and anyway Peter didn't own any. He frowned.

Sylar sighed and looked up at him. "Is there something you want, Peter?"

Peter blinked. He hadn't even realised he was staring at the man but now that he'd noticed it was like he couldn't stop, like something was keeping his gaze pinned on Sylar. A part of him did not like this at all, but a larger part of him liked it very much and so continued to do it even though the expression on Sylar's face went from mildly annoyed to an all-out glare in four seconds flat.

"Peter," he growled out. "Didn't your mother tell you it's rude to stare?"

"Yes," Peter said, nodding slowly. "She did." And then he leaned down and kissed Sylar, deepening the kiss as quickly as he could because, oh god, he wanted to get as much in as was possible in the little time he had. When Sylar tried to push him away, he merely buried his face in Sylar's neck and took in great gulps of that scent, the scent that was driving him crazy with a speed that would have terrified him if he had been in his right mind.

"You smell so good," he moaned before Sylar managed to push him far enough away. He tried to get closer but Sylar had a good grip on him and wasn't letting him. He growled softly, frustrated yet again. Was nothing going to go his way?

"Peter, what the hell?" Sylar looked half way between annoyed and confused. "What the hell are you doing?" Peter ignored him, in favour of pushing his hands away and wrapping himself around the man who was driving him mad simply by sitting there and smelling as good as he did.

By the time the bacon was cold on their plates, he felt Sylar give in, or at least give up, and happily began to gulp in huge amounts of that delicious scent, this time without hindrance.

"You're crazy." Sylar sounded amused. He pulled him closer, trying to make a bit more comfortable, although in the position Peter was in, that wouldn't ever really be entirely possible.

"You drive me crazy," Peter said, because it was true. He gave Sylar's neck an experimental lick and found that he tasted about as good as he smelled, maybe even better. He decided to do some research.

Sylar laughed at him. "I can't believe you just said that."

Peter tried out a few other areas of Sylar's skin – well, the parts he could reach anyway – and found that they too tasted very nice indeed. He felt very heartened as Sylar's pulse jumped in time with his own. "You better get used to it," he replied once he remembered what the other man had just said. "I say some pretty unbelievable things."

"Well, our lives are pretty unbelievable," Sylar said, and Peter delighted in hearing him sound ever so slightly breathless. "So it's not very surprising."

"We could make it surprising," Peter mumbled into the crook of Sylar's neck, pulling his bottom lip harshly over the other man's skin. "We could surprise each other."

Sylar laughed at him again, but this time it sounded almost gentle. He stroked Peter's hair and murmured, "You always surprise me, Peter. I didn't expect you to help me that first night, but you did. I didn't expect you to let me stay, but you did. I didn't expect you to feed me, but you did. Every day there's a surprise from you, and I think I kind of like it."

Peter pulled back and looked at him, really looked at him. He was thinner than he had been, funny since he'd eaten his weight in food ten times over and then some. His pupils were dilated again, making his eyes appear like liquid darkness. Peter was almost liable to drown in them, except that would be ridiculous and smacked of the impossible. He didn't seem any different, apart from these physical differences. Except that it almost seemed like he was bearing a burden he hadn't before, as though this werewolf thing had managed to take over the part of his brain that had been so bored it had latched onto killing because it helped pass the time and, anyway, sounded like fun.

Or something. Peter wasn't really in his right mind so most of his thoughts couldn't really be trusted. Anyway, the majority of his thoughts had something to do with sex, all variants of which would be impossible in his current position. Then again, he'd been thinking about sex for days, mostly in the shower and very quietly in case Sylar realised what he was doing.

So, mixing everything together, what came out his mouth certainly wasn't surprising, although it made Sylar blink a few times, in case he'd misheard. Despite the fact that he could have said all sorts of dirty and insinuating things, all Peter did say was, "You know, I think they were right about that whole soul mate thing. Because, despite the fact that you frustrate me to no end and sometimes I want to stick a knife in the back of your head and really put an end to it, I sort of want to spend the rest of my life like that. Which I know sounds all kinds of crazy but..."

Sylar kissed him, cutting off what Peter had been about to say. Not that Peter really minded, and in fact he forgot everything he'd been about to say the moment their lips touched.

It was a few hours later, blissed out from kissing for such a long period of time, that they both finally realised it was growing darker by the minute. How had time passed so quickly? At first they didn't know why the encroaching darkness was so important but then the moon moved from behind a cloud, bathing the living room, some of it reaching them.

Sylar pushed Peter away before he even knew what he was doing. He stared at his hands, even though nothing much was happening there. It was just a way of ignoring the fact that he could feel his internal organs rearranging themselves. It hurt so much he almost blacked out, but then he felt a hand grab his arm and pull him in some apparently random direction, which just so happened to lead directly to the cage.

He threw his head back and screamed as his spine snapped in several places. The hand quickly pushed him into the cage and he fell to the floor, gasping and writhing. Dimly he heard the cage door slam shut but then his entire concentration was filled with the sounds of numerous bones breaking, and he could actually feel every one as though it, and only it, was happening. Nothing else but the pain and a distant, reassuring darkness.

His fingernails lengthened, becoming sharp and pointed. His toenails did the same, although he never really liked thinking about anything associated with his feet at the best of times. A second set of teeth ripped through his mouth, and he eagerly, instinctively, licked up the blood from the gashes caused by teeth he hadn't even known he had. He knew hair was growing at an alarming rate all over his body, but that wasn't particularly interesting since he had quite a lot of hair to begin with (anyway, it didn't hurt). He also knew the clothes he had been wearing were mere shreds now, tatters barely recognisable as the t-shirt and jeans they had once been.

And then rage – pure, unadulterated, and red – overwhelmed him. Rage at this curse forced upon him, rage at the pain and how weak he sounded, screaming for all to hear, but above all else, rage at being caged in, at having no room to move, to run, to hunt. Whatever had caged him was evil to the very core; it would be a pleasure to kill it, tear it limb from limb and gorge himself.

And then he heard something at the edge of his hearing, something so soft and pleading, and then so angry and pitiful, he almost couldn't see who, or what, had made the sound. If he had had a mouth capable of frowning, he would have.

He reached through the bars, so thick and close together he almost couldn't get through, with his paw and touched human skin. The rage dimmed slightly. It was still there, of course, at the edge, waiting for the time to strike and tear its enemies to shreds, but for now it waited in vain.

***

Sylar slowly opened his eyes. Apparently the sun wanted him to know it existed in a very permanent, harsh way, so he closed them immediately and groaned softly. He dimly realised his right hand was clutching at something that, after a very long moment, he understood to be someone else's hand. It took him an even longer moment to know exactly whose hand he was holding onto, but by then he had realised what exactly had woken him.

It was annoying, high-pitched and he wanted it to stop right now. Sadly it did not oblige him. Quelle surprise. He groaned again, hoping in a vague way that the sound would wake Peter and he would answer his bloody phone.

Oddly enough, it did the trick. Peter, who was lying face down on the floor beside the cage, groaned as well and then lifted his head, frowning at the sight of Sylar staring at him through the bars of the cage. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand and then looked around. "What's that noise?"

Sylar gritted his teeth. "It's your phone."

Peter blinked at him, his mouth slightly open. "Oh," he said, and a very long few minutes later (or so it seemed to Sylar) he reached into his pocket and pulled his cell phone out. Interlacing their fingers into a tighter grip, Peter flipped the phone open with his free hand and put it to his ear. "Hello?" he said, sounding groggy and not in the mood for any sort of bullshit.

It was Claire. Sylar knew this since his hearing was pretty great, because either a) it was one of his abilities (a possibility), b) the werewolf thing again (also another possibility), or c) both (very likely). In any case, it was Claire Bennet. She did not sound well. Actually she sounded pretty freaked out. Sylar could relate.

"Oh, thank god, Peter," she said, sounding relieved. "I've been trying to reach you all week, where have you been? Did you have your phone turned off?"

Peter avoided Sylar's curious gaze and said, "No, uh, I've just been busy. What's wrong?"

She replied, her voice small and scared, "Something happened to me, Peter. Something bad. I was attacked by this guy...and the next thing I know, I'm waking up in the morgue!"

"And that's new how?" Peter winced, probably knowing he sounded a bit harsh.

"I work there, Peter! What if any of my co-workers had seen me?" Her voice lowered, as though she was trying not to be overheard. "And anyway, it wasn't like those other times. No one pulled something from my head. I was just...dead...and then I woke up." She cleared her throat. "Peter, I think...I'm not sure, but I think...I think I might be a..." and she said a word so quietly Sylar couldn't hear.

Apparently Peter couldn't either. "A what?"

Claire made a noise that clearly said she was not impressed with him at all. "A...you know...a...oh, fuck it!" She took a deep breath. "A vampire. Peter, I think I'm a vampire."

"Oh, shit," Peter said before he could stop himself. His grip on Sylar's hand tightened slightly.

"That's exactly what I thought," Claire replied, sighing. She sounded resigned, like she'd thought about it already and had come to the conclusion that she was definitely screwed.

"Well, um," Peter began only to stall as no words came to mind. Then he frowned. "Wait, is this why Mom is looking for you? Did you run away or something?"

Claire cleared her throat nervously. "Uh, yes, I may have done that. I didn't mean to worry anyone, Peter," she added hurriedly. "I was just...a little freaked out."

"Understatement of the year," Peter said, mouth moving into a wry smile. "And understandable. But they can help. I'm sure they can, I don't know, find a cure or something."

"Peter, there is no cure." Claire sounded resigned, again. "At least nothing that works. Believe, I checked. Every one of them, even the silly ones. Nothing worked." She paused for a second and then said, "That's why I called, actually. I was wondering if I could come over? I just need someone to talk to, if it's alright with you."

Sylar knew Peter's heartbeat had sped up because his was doing the exact same thing. He gave Sylar a half crazed what-are-we-going-to-do look before he said, "Well, uh, actually, Claire, I'm a bit tied up at the moment..." They both heard what sounded suspiciously like a sob and Peter added hastily, "Um...but I guess you could. I mean, the sofa's taken but you're not staying long, are you?" He chewed on his lip, the gesture leading Sylar to completely miss whatever Claire said next.

"Yeah, you do that," Peter was saying just as Sylar tuned back into the conversation. "I'll see you later on." He flipped the phone closed, effectively ending the call, and looked at Sylar.

"Well, we're screwed." His thumb grazed softly over the back of Sylar's hand, making him shiver.

"I could go for a walk," Sylar suggested, even though he wouldn't mind staying and messing with Claire's head a little (okay, a lot).

Peter shook his head. "No, you should stay. We should get the hard part over with."

Sylar frowned. "What do you mean, the hard part?"

"Well, she does hate you the most." He thought about that for a moment. "Along with Noah and Mohinder. They hate you slightly less, but enough so that they pose a problem."

"So, basically you're right," Sylar replied, quite taken with the idea that people hated him. It wasn't very surprising, and awhile ago he would have found the idea disturbing (not that he'd admit it, of course) but now, somehow, it amused him. He squeezed Peter's hand absently, and smiled. "We're screwed."

Peter stared at him. "I don't really see what there is to smile about," he grumbled.

"Oh, there's quite a lot, actually." Sylar continued to smile, this time because he could see how much it annoyed Peter. "Now, open this cage," he added, somewhat imperiously.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Say please."

Sylar stared at him and then rolled his eyes. "Please let me out of this cage, Peter," he begged, his tone so sarcastic it managed to tug a reluctant smile from the corner of Peter's mouth. "I'll do anything!"

Sylar immediately regretted saying that when Peter smirked at him. "Oh, really?" he said, and Sylar shivered as he felt Peter's thumb graze the back of his hand again. "Anything?"

He merely glared at Peter until the other man laughed and made to stand. Sylar followed suit, keeping their fingers entwined all the while. Peter unlocked the cage and pulled him out, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"You need a shave," Peter murmured, his free hand stroking the stubble on Sylar's cheeks.

"I also need to get dressed," Sylar said, because yes, he most certainly did. Although he wasn't uncomfortable being naked in Peter's presence, he wasn't entirely comfortable either, simply on principle.

Peter sighed. "Be gone, then." He gave an imperious wave of his hand in the direction of the bedroom. Sylar obeyed and felt Peter watch him as he walked away. He slowed down a bit, he would admit, and might have swung his hips slightly. Or he might not have. And so it goes.

A few minutes later, Sylar devoured his breakfast, thinking that Peter really was an excellent cook. He realised he was smiling, had probably been doing just that for awhile now, and tried to quell the reaction.

"Does it scare you?" He glanced up at Peter, who was staring past him, possibly at the cage. "How quickly we've become used to this whole soul mate thing, I mean. After all a few weeks ago neither one of us would have even imagined this happening. If Amy hadn't attacked you, we wouldn't be where we are now."

Sylar thought about this. He was right, of course. Before this whole werewolf thing, Sylar hadn't really thought about Peter all that much, except as a bug he should probably squash sooner or later (preferably later since he was usually very busy). He'd only come to Peter because he'd known the man was honourable and wouldn't, as they say, hit a man when he's down. He could blame it on the whole soul mate thing but it wouldn't be true. He hadn't come to Peter because of some great, spiritual destiny shit, but because he could use him.

Now, though, that whole soul mate thing kind of made sense. It wouldn't have done so before Amy attacked him, but it did so now. There was something about Peter that intrigued him; it had probably been there all along, but only now was he noticing it. He'd spent most of the past week trying desperately not think about the man, but it was like he couldn't _not_ think about him. Everything seemed to relate back to Peter, and it had frustrated him to no end. He had tried to go over his kills but it was as though they had lost all meaning – no longer did the thought of them give him a buzz.

It wasn't exactly love, that was just preposterous...more like curiosity. He wanted to find out exactly what it would feel like to spend an eternity with Peter, whether everything would be light, calm and loving (unlikely) or full of fighting and that kind of passion so hard to find in everyday life (a definite possibility). Not the kind that consumes, but the rare kind, the slow burn, the simmer. He kind of wouldn't mind fighting with Peter if it meant having that.

"Then I'm glad she attacked me," Sylar replied before resuming his meal because boy, he must be hungry if he was mentioning simmering in his private thoughts. "And don't you dare get all sentimental on me."

"I won't, I promise." Despite the very suspicious glare Sylar sent him, Peter couldn't help but smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."

As Peter wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled himself closer, Sylar thought that maybe sentimentality wasn't all that bad, especially when it involved Peter's mouth and tongue. They almost even made him forget his food. Almost.

Peter laughed and pushed him gently, teasing. "You smell so good," he murmured, his tongue grazing over Sylar's collarbone. Sylar blinked. Peter had said the exact same thing the day before and he knew he did not smell any different from last week, when Peter had never mentioned an affinity for his scent. He looked down, somewhat confused, and then eyed his very empty plate suspiciously. Where had all the food gone? And then he sort of forgot about that because Peter's hand was somewhere it had definitely not been only seconds ago, and actually it was very nice where it was, could he keep it there, _oh yes..._

There was a knock at the door. He heard Peter groan, a frustrated sigh whispering past his ear.

"That's probably Claire," Peter mumbled, as whoever was at the door knocked again, this time somewhat frantically.

"Mmm," Sylar murmured, kind of caught up in the fact that Peter's hand hadn't actually moved. Peter gave him an apologetic smile and, much to Sylar's utter disappointment, moved his hand away. He felt this was very unfair. He would definitely be messing with Claire's head.

The person knocking at the door did indeed turn out to be Claire Bennet, who walked in the moment Peter opened the door and began talking non-stop, so fast in fact that Peter could barely understand her. She didn't notice Sylar, sitting rather dejectedly on one of the kitchen stools, until she was three quarters of the way in. She noticed the cage almost immediately, however.

"What...?" she exclaimed upon sighting it. Her gaze caught on something far more troubling, but no less puzzling. "What is he doing here?!" she yelled, her blonde hair swinging around her as she shook with fury.

Peter cleared his throat and she turned toward him. "He's, uh, he's kind of in the same boat," he said, flinching a little as she glared daggers at him.

"What, you mean _he's _a vampire too?" Claire looked disgusted with the very idea. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"No, he's a werewolf," Peter said, and winced at how silly that sounded.

After a moment of complete silence, Claire began to laugh. "Oh, this has got to be some kind of sick joke," she spluttered. "This can't be happening."

And then her anger returned. "But what is he doing here? I thought..."

Sylar tuned her out and glanced around the kitchen. He was still hungry, as his stomach was apparently trying to tell him. He stood up and rummaged around in the cupboards. Eventually he found a packet of potato chips. He sat back down and watched the yelling match between Claire and Peter with mild interest. In an uncharacteristic bout of sentimentality (seriously, it was like a disease), he thought Peter looked rather adorable all flushed and angry like he was just then.

He tuned back into the conversation just as Peter was saying (or, yelling), "Just get out, Claire! Get out right now!"

Her lip curling, she glared and then walked past him, nose firmly in the air. Peter followed, slamming the door behind her. As Sylar watched, Peter punched the door half-heartedly, before pressing his forehead against it with a sigh.

"Please tell me something that'll make that seem like the right thing to do," Peter murmured against the door, so softly Sylar shouldn't have been able to hear him. "Please..."

Sylar was there in a second, although if pressed later he would deny this and instead say he took his own sweet time about it. He ran a hand through Peter's hair, pressed a kiss to his check and whispered, "Thank you," in his ear.

A smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Peter turned his head, meeting Sylar's mouth with his own, in a kiss that shattered and collected them back together again in the same instant.

"You were eating," Peter whispered against his mouth. "You weren't even listening." He pulled away and Sylar saw the suspicious glint of tears in his eyes. "Bastard."

He didn't apologise because they both knew he wouldn't have meant it. Instead Sylar just drew him close, wrapped his arms around him and brought their mouths back together again because it was all he could do to show Peter that although he wasn't sorry, he did care. He wanted to wipe those tears away, to just hold him. His heart was doing something strange in his chest and he thought that maybe this was what falling was like, nothing below you but empty air and a strange sound in your ears, the world rushing past and a moment in time when you could have stopped this.

They stayed like that until darkness began to fall. Instead of leaving it til the last minute as they had last night, Peter immediately ushered Sylar into the cage and locked the door behind him. They looked at each other through the gaps between the bars.

"Will it always be like this?" Sylar asked wistfully, the sound of his voice a shock in the silence.

Peter smiled crookedly. "Who knows? Maybe Mom will buy us a place in the country where you can roam free." He shrugged. "I doubt it, though."

"Yeah, it's a pretty unbelievable thing to do," Sylar replied. "But maybe she'll surprise us."

Peter inclined his head, still smiling. "Maybe."

He wrapped his hands around the bars, Sylar placing his own hands over them. They smiled at each other until the moon moved out from behind a cloud and bathed them in light.

Sylar moved his hands away quickly, and it was good that he did so for his claws were the first things to appear this time. The rearrangement of organs and the snapping of bones almost felt familiar, despite the fact that he'd only done this once before. It still fucking hurt, regardless of the familiarity, and he wondered exactly why he'd ever desired a shape shifter's ability.

The rage was there again, huge and red, all-consuming. And this time there was no hand to grasp, no sounds to bring him back, nothing to battle against its incredible insistence that he tear anything nearby limb from limb because it had been evil enough to cage it. And deep down, he thought that maybe this was his punishment, for not listening.

***

Peter was curled up on the floor just far enough away from the cage that Sylar couldn't touch him. He hadn't been able to sleep. Sylar had raged on through the night and was only now beginning to fall silent. Guilt gnawed at Peter because he knew he could have calmed that rage, as he had done the night before when he'd held out a hand and felt Sylar's paw grasp it through the bars of the cage. And yet this time he hadn't, simply because maybe Sylar deserved to be punished, not just for not listening, but for all the pain he had caused. Peter owed Claire that much at least, even though she probably thought death would be the only thing good enough for Sylar.

It hurt him though, denying Sylar the peace he seemed to so desperately need, much more than he thought possible. This wasn't just empathy, this was something new and different and frightening. There was so much power in it, this bond between them. They held the other's life in their hands and could so easily drop it and watch it smash onto the ground like with the fragility of glass. He kind of understood the werewolves' need for a soul mate – their control was tenuous at the best of times. Control could only be absolute with their bond mate by their side, as the night before had demonstrated. The trust in his liquid dark eyes, the harsh grip of his paw, the memory twisted Peter's heart in his chest.

He stared unseeingly at the carpet and tried to think of other things. He shouldn't have yelled at Claire. He understood where she was coming from; after all, he had thought like her until a few weeks ago. But she had said something unforgiveable. He flinched as he heard her voice in his head, sneering that Sylar was beyond even his help. And a few weeks ago, it had been true. But now...she didn't understand. She didn't _know_, how much things had changed, how everything was different now. She still treated everything the same, despite the fact that she herself had changed.

He heard Sylar whine behind him, and the sound broke his heart. He thought about turning around and, before he could stop himself, he was doing just that. A lone paw, and a wet nose just dimly seen above, pushed through the gaps, and there was that soft whine again.

He grasped the paw with both hands and bent to kiss it. A wet nose brushed against his cheek, leaving behind a damp line, and he laughed softly. "I forgive you," he whispered, and meant it. "I forgive you."

He reached up and unlocked the door. The wolf that was Sylar backed away as he crawled in and closed the door behind him. He curled up inside the cage now, his back pressed against the door. Sylar padded forward silently and lay down next to him, nestling his head against Peter's chest.

With identical sighs, of relief and contentment both, they closed their eyes and went to sleep.

***

Sylar woke up alone in the cage. As he blinked himself awake, he noticed the door was thrown wide open and that there was a change of clothing set just outside. He smiled.

After getting dressed, he followed his nose. It lead him toward the kitchen where a meal was laid out for him, a piece of white paper folded neatly beside it. He opened the folded note as he sat down, just a little bit puzzled about where Peter was. The note did almost nothing to satisfy his curiosity – it said only that Peter had had to go out and wouldn't be home until at least eleven o'clock. A glance at the clock above the oven told him Peter would be back in around an hour and a half.

As Sylar slowly ate the meal before him, he thought that Peter had probably gone to apologise to Claire. Definitely the most likely option, since grocery shopping was out as they had enough food for now and it didn't take that long to buy food.

He absently used his fork to tap a pointless beat against the edge of his plate. Now what could he do? He was bored, and had a stomach demanding he fill it with food. He glanced down at his plate and frowned, ceasing the pointless fork beat for a moment. Again his food had mysteriously disappeared. Had he really eaten it that fast? Okay, so he may not have had much to eat yesterday, but this was getting ridiculous. He went and rummaged through the cupboards, munching on whatever he could find until it too mysteriously vanished.

He looked in the fridge and found some leftover strips of bacon. He cooked those, and managed to stop himself from cooking every other piece of meat in the fridge as well. It was hard going, but once the bacon was cooked, it became surprisingly easy.

Once the bacon had been devoured (he really should stop eating so fast), he went to the bathroom, had a shower and dressed again in the clothes Peter had laid out for him.

He was still bored. He managed to stop himself from rummaging around in the cupboards again, but it was tough. He went over and perused the bookcase, or at least the part of it not blocked by the cage. He ran a finger lightly over each spine, every now and then pulling out a book, to glance at the blurb on the back or admire the cover art, if he felt so inclined (which he did, frequently, he was so bored). There were some fantasy and sci-fi novels, a few non-fiction ones and...

His hand stilled on one book in particular. _Memoirs of a Former Bug Man, _by Dr. Mohinder Suresh. With an incredulous smile, he pulled it out and began to read. Every now and then something would startle a laugh out of him, and he'd pause and shake his head, that incredulous smile never leaving his face once.

By the time Peter returned, Sylar was sitting on one of the kitchen stools, absently picking at his food, while he continued to read what Peter realised with some surprise was Mohinder's autobiography. When he heard the door close, Sylar turned and brought the book up with him. "I didn't know Mohinder was such a comedian," he said, grinning at Peter, who looked somewhat amused. "This is seriously the most hilarious thing I've ever read. Tell me," he added, leaning forward with an air of great interest, "You were there, so you must know. Did Mohinder really defeat Arthur Petrelli and destroy Pineherst all on his lonesome?"

The corner of Peter's mouth twitched. "Well, some of that might be slightly exaggerated."

Sylar raised an eyebrow, now smirking unabashedly. "Only slightly?" He waved the book around. "Peter, none of this actually happened! And if it did, it happened to someone else because he was unconscious through most of it." He cleared his throat. "Or so I heard."

Peter shrugged. "I think his publisher actually told him to embellish a few things," he said. "It's not the most reliable of his autobiographies, but it's definitely the most hilarious. That's why I bought it, really."

"He wrote more?" Sylar sounded truly sceptical. "Why the hell did he do that?"

Peter thought about that. "Well...he does get a lot of money...and Matt says he thinks it's fun." The corner of his mouth twitched again. "Apparently he has a large fan base."

"I find that hard to believe." Sylar shook his head slowly and laid the book back down on the bench in front of him. "Where did you go, by the way?"

"Why, did you miss me?" Peter grinned, sitting down on the stool next to him.

"No," Sylar said, quickly adding, "I was just bored."

"That I can believe," Peter said before snatching a piece of ham off Sylar's plate. Sylar glared at him and drew the plate closer, creating a barrier around it with his arm. "Actually I went to see Mom, about what we discussed last night. You know," he added as Sylar looked confused. "About going to the countryside. She says we can, as long as we leave early tomorrow morning."

"So..." Sylar hesitated. "She knows about..." He left the sentence hanging, unsure how to proceed.

"Yes," Peter said shortly. "She knows. She doesn't approve...but at least she knows."

"We leave tomorrow then." Sylar shifted nervously on the stool, picking up a slice of ham and eating it absently.

Peter nodded and then stared at him for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He stood abruptly and touched Sylar's arm. "Come with me," he said before walking off toward the bedroom.

"But I haven't finished eating," Sylar whined, because he hadn't, and besides, he was hungry.

"Leave it."

Sylar stared at the bedroom doorway and then gazed longingly down at the plate before him. Coming to a very quick decision, he stuffed the rest of the food – thankfully only one or two pieces of ham – in his mouth and followed Peter into the bedroom. He glanced around, puzzled by Peter's absence.

"Lie down on the bed," Peter's voice whispered in his ear but when he turned around no one was there. He frowned, wondering for a moment what was going on. A smirk slowly spread over his face and he crawled onto the bed, lying down as instructed, with his head pillowed in his hands.

Peter slowly shimmered out of invisibility, appearing at the foot of the bed. He knelt on the bed and crawled up it, his hands grazing up Sylar's legs and along his torso, over his arms, until Sylar pulled his own hands from behind his head and pulled Peter down into a deep, very satisfying kiss.

"I can't believe neither of us has had a gay crisis yet," Peter said, giddy and breathless, as Sylar licked his way over his collarbone and oh so slowly up his neck.

"Don't tell me you're having one now," Sylar murmured against his skin. Peter shivered and kissed him on the mouth, deeply and hungrily. "As I thought." Sylar brushed his bottom lip over Peter's chin and licked into his mouth before adding, "Totally gay for me."

Peter laughed and pushed him down. He inclined his head as he gazed down at the man beneath him, at his red mouth and flushed skin, at the way his pulse jumped in the side of his neck, even the way he licked his lips as Peter continued to stare, because it was so fucking beautiful and how had he not noticed before?

Research would have to be done on the subject and he was definitely the best man for the job. He slowly leaned down to capture Sylar's mouth in his, grinning into the kiss as Sylar's arms wrapped around him and held him tight.

Peter thought, as he breathed and watched Sylar breath in time with him, that if this was a mistake, it was the best fucking mistake of his entire life. He examined every inch of this apparent mistake, with his hands and his mouth and his tongue, kissing every flaw and imperfection with a fervour that surprised him. He wouldn't forget any of it.

And Sylar thought, his head lying over Peter's heart, beating in time with his own, that maybe this was what his life had been leading up to, this calm before an inevitable storm. He closed his eyes and dreamed no dreams, for he already had what he wanted.

***

Sylar woke, gasping for breath, unable to understand what exactly had woken him. He blinked in the dimness of the room and slowly realised that it must be nearing night. How long had he been asleep? But the answer didn't matter, for with night came something far more important. He had to get to the cage, quickly before he changed right there and then, before he hurt Peter.

He glanced out the window and saw it happen, the moon appearing from behind a large cloud, bathing everything in a pure, silvery light. It moved over his skin like silk and he felt almost comforted. He smiled dreamily and gazed down at Peter, radiant in the moonlight, and he thought that maybe this was what they called a miracle.

Beneath the light, his skin began to ripple. His eyes widened rather comically before the pain crashed down, tearing a scream from his throat. His skin moved before his eyes, pooling into new and painful arrangements. His back arched as his spine broke apart and reassembled itself, lengthening at its base.

He rolled over and fell off the bed, landing on all fours. As he looked on, his hands transformed into large, black paws, complete with four very sharp claws on each one. He really did not want to think about what was happening to his legs and feet – although he could certainly feel it – and fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your take of the situation), his face decided it was high time to change itself. It lengthened, and widened, and moulded, not caring a whit for the pain it was causing him. He could suddenly see his nose without crossing his eyes too much, and it was black and wet and definitely not the nose he used to have. If he had been able to, he would have checked up on his ears, but he had the feeling they had also changed drastically.

He tried to scream but all that came out was a sound that terrified him, a howl so deep and primal that if he'd been human he definitely would have hidden under the bed. He felt eyes on him, turned his head slightly and saw Peter's horrified face, mouth half open, his hands gripping the bed sheets so tightly he was probably ripping them.

"Oh, god," Peter said.

"I doubt God has anything to do with this, Peter," he tried to say, but all that came out was something that sounded suspiciously like a whine, so he shut up. And then he wondered exactly where the rage was, crimson and hungry for blood. Maybe it wasn't there because he wasn't caged up, but that struck him as far too simple an explanation.

Peter was blinking at him, now merely looking surprised. The terror had apparently vanished. "Did you just...?" he trailed off, hardly daring to believe the seemingly impossible.

Sylar looked at him, absently wondering why he wasn't tearing the man limb from limb. "You...did you understand me?" he asked, incredulous, not really believing Peter would understand him because what was coming out of his mouth was most definitely something closely related to a whine.

When Peter nodded, Sylar seriously considered striking the word 'impossible' from his vocabulary. It obviously didn't belong there; everything he had once deemed impossible a few weeks ago, had indeed proved themselves to be quite possible. "This is crazy," he said, trying to ignore the whine he heard issue from his mouth, instead of the words he had said.

"You're telling me." Peter moved slowly to sit on the edge of the bed. "I shouldn't be able to understand you. Unless I accidentally brushed past someone who could talk to animals and acquired their power by mistake." He frowned. "That's actually not impossible."

"But not, I think, what's happening here." Sylar tried to shake his head, and ended up shaking his entire body, including upon closer inspection what had to be his tail. "Anyway, I'm no ordinary animal. I'm..."

"...special?" Peter grinned as he finished Sylar's sentence. Sylar tried to glare as he would have done in human form, but felt he came off looking a bit silly.

"You're not above the low blows, right now, are you, Peter?" he said instead, because at least he didn't sound silly. Except for that whole whining thing, which was starting to get on his nerves.

Peter smirked. "You know, if you were human, I'd say that remark deserves a dirty reply, but since you aren't entirely human at the moment, I'll keep the dirty replies to myself." He shrugged. "Who knows, maybe I'll feel like picking this up in the morning." He lay on his side, and patted the spot in front of him invitingly.

"Peter, I'm not going to sleep away the first night I haven't felt like killing everything in sight." He did not huff, since he'd already learned human expressions didn't work so well in this form.

Peter stared at him and then slowly sat back up. "You aren't seriously suggesting I take you for a walk, are you?"

"Well, no..." Sylar looked at the air just over Peter's shoulder. It was remarkably interesting. "...and yes."

Peter continued to stare at him for minutes on end. Finally he sighed and, sounding resigned, muttered, "Fine."

His tail did _not_ wag, but he could admit that he grinned, an expression that translated remarkably well to this form.

New York's nightlife gave them a wide berth, whenever they happened to meet any, which was too often in Peter's opinion. Once the third homeless person had run shouting down the empty street, leaving their trolley full of odds and ends behind, Sylar realised that he must look terrifying. This realisation pleased him. In fact, he found it kind of funny. As long as Peter wasn't terrified of him, he didn't really mind what anyone else thought of him. He wouldn't admit this out loud, of course, but it was true nonetheless.

"Would you stop that?" Peter hissed as Sylar pretended to chase after the fifth homeless person to cross their path, only to stop and return to Peter's side. "Can't you see you almost gave him a heart attack?"

"But it's fun," Sylar said, because it was.

"Maybe we should just go home," Peter said, glancing around in case anymore homeless people happened to pass by. He tried to get Sylar to move into a nearby alleyway as a hooded man walked by.

Sylar's ears drooped. Peter hesitated. "Well...maybe one more hour," he conceded. "But only one."

Sylar could definitely handle that.

***

Peter switched on the television in his bedroom when he woke up, absently stroking Sylar's hair as he surfed the channels. He stopped on one, frowning as he realised what it was about.

The newscaster was sitting in the studio, a picture of what looked suspiciously like Balto on the screen behind him. "And in local news, a giant wolf was seen roaming the streets of New York City last night." It cut to shaky footage, probably taken with a cell phone, of what was most definitely a wolf chasing after a homeless man.

Peter sort of tuned out after that, dimly aware through his horror and amazement that the newscaster had made a very lame joke and winked at the audience. He glanced down and found Sylar blinking up at him.

"We have a problem," Sylar said, having woken up in time to see the cell phone footage (and, unfortunately, hear the lame joke).

"It's good we're leaving the city today then," Peter replied. There's something to be said for the countryside, and its ability to hide the deepest and darkest of secrets.

It was late afternoon when they arrived at the cottage Angela had rented for them. The drive had been uneventful, and a little boring. Sylar had even taken a nap, much to Peter's delight. There was a small town near the cottage, which they passed through on their way. It would be where they would buy most of their food, so Peter tried to memorise the way.

They passed a hooded man on their way down a gravel road, surrounded on both sides by tall pine trees, leading to the cottage. The taxi driver took their bags out of the boot and then promptly left, having been paid beforehand by Angela. Peter was grateful he had thought to send her a large bouquet of flowers, to thank her for all her help, reluctant as it might be.

When he glanced over at Sylar, he found the man staring at the cottage, his head tilted slightly to one side. "It's very small," he said.

Peter rolled his eyes and picked up the bags. "Well, yes," he said, walking toward the front step. "What did you expect? She doesn't like you." He pretended to forget what she'd said about Sylar taking her favourite son away from her, because he'd learnt to take everything his mother said with a grain of salt (especially when she started talking about him being her favourite son, usually when Nathan wasn't in the room). He didn't say anything more, just put the bags down and fumbled for the keys in his pocket.

"I don't like her either," Sylar said, because he certainly didn't. He'd only been used once by Angela, but it was one time too many. Every time he thought about the experience, he shuddered. To take his mind off such shudder-inducing things, he watched Peter pick up the bags and enter the small cottage. It was a remarkably fine view.

He followed Peter inside and watched as the other man dropped the bags and surveyed his surroundings. "Well, this is nice," he said. Sylar glanced around, one eyebrow raised. Well, it was certainly better than where he had lived as a child, that was for sure. He realised Peter was watching him and met his eye.

"Close the door," Peter said, and as Sylar went to do just that he wondered why he didn't really mind obeying Peter's orders. He was just turning back around when Peter pinned him to the door, pressing their bodies flush against one another. Sylar immediately wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, his hands moving underneath Peter's shirt, tracing up and down his spine. Peter moaned into his neck and pressed kisses along his collarbone.

"What say you and me do a little christening of this place?" Peter murmured, the feel of lips brushing skin sending shivers up and down Sylar's spine. He moaned softly and pulled Peter closer, kissing him hungrily on the mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes." Peter, grinning, stepped back and proceeded to pull Sylar up the stairs.

***

After a week of acquainting themselves with their surroundings, they sat outside in the back garden, which backed onto a forest, filled with pine trees and a muffled silence. Occasionally a bird would twitter. Peter wondered absently whether he'd become a bird watcher while they were here. Hopefully not, since he had quite a lot to entertain him. That being said, he glanced over at said entertainment, to find him frowning up at the sky. He looked up, just in case there was something there worth frowning over but found nothing.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hoping that it would be easily fixed, and that they wouldn't have to move away. He actually liked this place. He wondered how his mother had found out about it. Seeing as this was Sylar, he waited for bad news.

"Do you think I can change at will now?" Sylar asked after a moment. He glanced over at Peter, squinting as the sunlight hit his eyes. He shielded his eyes with his hand but continued to gaze at Peter. "I mean, become a wolf without it being the full moon?"

Peter shrugged, relieved that it hadn't been too worrying. "You're the one with more control over your abilities, you tell me."

Sylar thought about that for a moment and then stood up, moving toward the middle of the lawn. He sat down and crossed his legs, facing the edge of the forest. His hands gripping his knees, he closed his eyes.

Peter watched him absently, mentally tracing the lines of muscle he could see as the wind rippled his shirt. He smiled and propped his chin on the palm of his hand. And then he frowned because he could now see it wasn't only Sylar's shirt that was rippling, but his skin too, and his muscles. His mouth fell open. He had never seen Sylar change before, not really. The first two times, he'd been obscured by the bars of the cage for half of the time, and the third time he'd woken up when the change had been three quarters of the way done.

It was fascinating, and a little terrifying at the same time. He watched as Sylar's ears moved up the side of his face, lengthening and growing fur. His back arched, his spine increasing to a length far more than a human's really should. His shirt ripped as fur sprouted from his skin, and as his clothes fell away, Peter was left speechless with not a little amazement.

He realised his mouth was still open and closed it abruptly. He was grateful he had done so when Sylar turned his head and grinned at him, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "I think I'm going to go for a hunt," he said, except that – now that Peter had the time to notice – it wasn't out loud, more like...in his head. He shook said body part, confused, before Sylar's words registered.

A sudden rush of fear overwhelmed him – what if Sylar couldn't control that rage Peter had seen on the first two nights? He put out his hand as if to stop him, but by then Sylar had bounded away into the forest, nothing to show he'd ever been there except the remnants of his clothing, lying about where he'd been sitting. Peter slumped down in his seat. What was he going to do now?

Seconds, minutes, then hours passed by, and Peter began to worry in earnest. It wasn't a stretch to imagine Sylar coming across a backpacker or local and killing them. He'd killed people before, and at the time hadn't been filled with the rage Peter had witnessed on the first two nights. That rage...he shivered. It had been terrifying in its intensity, red hot and burning. What if Sylar killed someone? Peter would never forgive himself if it happened.

He thought about going after Sylar but, as the light slowly began to dim, thought better of this. He would probably get lost, and then where would he be? Being lost, he wouldn't know exactly, and so he sat back down, legs jiggling with nerves, and waited.

For Sylar, running through the forest, bounding through trees that blurred together, was bloody amazing. This was better than when he had acquired a new ability and was just testing it out. Sylar didn't want to throw the word destiny around, but it did kind of feel fated. There was no rage, only contentment and a sense of wanting to do everything, go as fast as he could go, smell as much as he could, live fast and loose and free.

A scent breezing past his nose caught his attention. He skidded to a halt and raised his head, sniffing the air. He bounded off in the direction the scent appeared to be coming from, grinning his wolf-like grin. This was much better than expected; he should do this more often. And he should definitely introduce Peter to this feeling.

Peter was still standing outside, continuously giving the edge of the forest a worried look, when Sylar returned, again in his human form. He lopped out of the forest, grinning something terrible. Peter thought about yelling at him, but before he could he was rushing over there and wrapping his arms around Sylar, pulling him into a desperate, heart-racing kiss. He could taste blood in Sylar's mouth, half hoped it wasn't what he thought it was, and then found he didn't actually care, a thought which would have frightened him if he'd been in his right mind.

Sylar pulled back, one hand coming up to caress Peter's cheek roughly before he kissed him again. Peter let his hands wander for awhile, grinning into the kiss. Their mouths eventually parted, although Peter continued to maintain his hold around Sylar's waist, keeping him close just in case he thought about running away again.

"It's deer's blood," Sylar murmured, and Peter blinked, surprised. "In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't, but thanks for telling me anyway." Peter stared at him, a small smile on his lips, and then pulled him back into a kiss, this one soft and gentle. "Next time," he said against Sylar's mouth as he broke the kiss, "I'm coming with you."

Sylar gazed at him, blinking with what was probably surprise, and then laughed. As Peter glared at him, he said, still chuckling slightly because how many times does what you think come to be, "Sure, I'd like that."

In reply, Peter pushed him down onto the grass and proceeded to show him just how much he'd missed him, in actions if not in words. And there was a moment, when Sylar bit his shoulder to muffle his cries of delight, when Peter thought that maybe everything would be alright.

It was a moment which passed very quickly because in the morning Sylar was in one of his weird moods again, snapping every time Peter so much as blinked in his direction. Peter tried to be calm. He'd obviously been wrong in thinking these mood swings would disappear as soon as Sylar had changed for the first time, because they were definitely back. And he really tried to be calm, but it was as though Sylar was deliberately trying to bait him. He gritted his teeth and tried to bear the snarled insults Sylar threw in his direction, but eventually his resolve snapped, and he was shouting insults right back. They might not have been particularly good ones, but at least they were some sort of reply.

It was like he was angry at Peter for something, except he didn't know what it was. The first time he threw something at Sylar was a few days later when the man dared insult his family. Yes, okay, they might have deserved it, but only he was allowed to insult them. He picked up the nearest thing – a lampshade the colour of shiny pink lipstick, which he'd never liked anyway – and, without a second thought, threw it in Sylar's direction. He had terrible aim, but Sylar still went pale, his mouth still fell open, and he still looked shocked. Peter felt rather pleased with himself.

And then he was flying across the room, slamming into the wall with an unconcealed wince. He tried to move but found himself pinned there. He glanced up, to see Sylar stalk over toward him, his mouth now in a perfectly straight line, his eyes blazing with some emotion Peter couldn't, or wouldn't, name. He could hear his heart beating wildly in his chest, and took some pleasure in the fact that Sylar's was doing the exact same thing, until Sylar slammed one hand into the wall, in the space just to the left of Peter's face.

"Let me go," Peter growled out, wriggling against the invisible bonds pinning him to the wall.

"No." Sylar smirked as Peter glared at him and continued to squirm, getting nowhere no matter what he tried. Sylar curled the fingers of the hand resting beside Peter's head and leaned forward. "Do you know why I went to you that first night?" He grinned. "Because I knew I could use you. You're just too honourable for your own good, Peter. You'd never hurt someone in pain."

Peter sneered at him, but said nothing. Sylar stopped smiling and just stared at him, his head tilted on a slight angle. "How do you know I'm not using you now?"

Peter blinked. Oh. _Oh. _

"I see what this is about," he said. He stopped wriggling and became still. "You're afraid. Sylar, don't you think I'm afraid too? This wasn't meant to happen, but it has, and we just have to deal with it!"

"Deal with it?" Sylar hissed, slamming his other hand into the wall on Peter's right. "You think I haven't tried to do that? You...you take everything in stride, but I..." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "It's like you're in my head all the time. I have these stupid little thoughts, like how I don't want you to get hurt, or how much I want to show you the beauty of the hunt. It's driving me crazy."

"You think I don't have those thoughts too?" Peter glared at him. "You think I wasn't worried sick about you, when you ran off? And not just because you might have killed someone," he added when Sylar rolled his eyes. "Some stupid part of me thought you might get hurt, even though that's impossible of course," he told him, his tone tinged with sarcasm. "I know this is going to make me sound like such a girl, but I care about you. It's come on so fast, and frankly it scares the shit out of me." He paused, slightly out of breath.

Sylar stared at him, face expressionless. And then suddenly he crushed their mouths together, kissing him harshly, desperately and without much finesse. Although why Peter should care, when they were so close and he could rub himself against the other man's thigh so freely, he did not know. Sylar pulled back and attacked his neck with teeth and tongue, whispering something which might have been "I love you" but could easily have been "colourful," the simple feel of those words, whatever they happened to be, against his skin making him shudder. He felt them begin to slide down the wall and thought that maybe _now _everything would be alright.

He really should stop thinking that. It wasn't the last time he threw something, and it certainly wasn't the last time Sylar pinned him against the wall to yell at him. It was, however, the last time anyone ever saw that garish pink lightshade, which could only be a good thing.

Peter discovered that running through the forest was as enjoyable as Sylar had said, and Sylar discovered that lying around in the sun was pretty relaxing. And they both discovered that maybe being soul mates wasn't so bad after all. While neither would ever admit this out loud, it's the thought that counts.

The man standing just outside smiled, although how you could see it with that infernal hood pulled down so low was anybody's guess. He really should stop indulging his daughter; she'd come to think she could walk all over him. He shook his head, because that certainly wouldn't be happening anytime soon, and walked off down the gravel driveway, into the night.

"_The logic of the heart is absurd," – _Julie de Lespinasse

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**The stories of Claire and Ando may be told in future fic, because dammit if I haven't gone and fallen for another AU.**

**Review please. **


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